Poetry Archives

I’m sitting by the fire tonight,
        The cat purrs on the rug;
The room’s abrim with rosy light,
        Suavely soft and snug;
And safe and warm from dark and storm
        It’s cosiness I hug.

Then petulant the window pane
        Quakes in the tempest moan,
And cries: “Forlornly in the rain
        There starkly streams a stone,
Where one so dear who shared your cheer
        Now lies alone, alone.

Go forth! Go forth into the gale
        And pass and hour in prayer;
This night of sorrow do not fail
        The one you deemed so fair,
The girl below the bitter snow
        Who died your child to bear.”

So wails the wind, yet here I sit
        Beside the ember’s glow;
My grog is hot, my pipe is lit,
        And loth am I to go
To her who died a ten-month bride,
        Only a year ago.

To-day we weep: each morrow is
        A littling of regret;
The saddest part of sorrow is
        That we in time forget . . .
Christ! Let me go to graveyard woe,—
        Yea, I will sorrow yet.